Chapter 41: The Sermon of the Sword
The salt spray of the Narrow Sea felt different on the eastward journey. It felt like the breath of a new world, a world of unknown possibilities and divine, terrifying purpose. The Grand Armada of the Great Work, a forest of masts bearing the Targaryen dragon alongside the personal banners of every great house in Westeros, moved with a silent, inexorable purpose. It was not an army of conquest. It was a pilgrimage of righteous destruction.
In the Free City of Pentos, the mood was one of panicked avarice. Prince Tregar Ormollen, a man whose family had grown obscenely wealthy from the slave trade, convened a desperate council of war. With him were the grim-faced Magisters of Myr and Lys, and an envoy from Tyrosh, whose harbor was still a twisted sheet of black glass—a chilling reminder of the power they now faced.
"Our spies confirm their numbers," the Prince of Pentos said, his pudgy fingers tracing a line on a map of the Flatlands. "Over six hundred ships. An army of nearly a hundred thousand. They will make for the beaches south of the city."
"Numbers are a commodity," sneered a Magister from Myr, a man named Malathen whose wealth was built on the backs of pleasure slaves. "We have purchased every notable sellsword company from here to the Dothraki Sea. The Second Sons, the Gallant Men, the Windblown… They will meet these Westerosi fanatics on the beaches with ten thousand spears and a wall of steel."
A nervous advisor, a man who had heard the firsthand accounts from Tyrosh, cleared his throat. "But can sellswords stand against an army of… of saints, Magister? Our agents speak of men who feel no pain, of women who can heal mortal wounds with a touch."
Prince Tregar slammed his fist on the table. "Every man has a price, and every saint bleeds! I have tripled the pay for any man who can bring me the head of one of these so-called 'Blessed.' We will see how holy they feel with a Myrish crossbow bolt in their eye! We will drown them in blood and iron on the beaches!"
His words were brave. But the fear in the room was a palpable thing, a cold sweat that no amount of bravado could wipe away.
Aboard the flagship, the Queen Rhaenyra's Vengeance, the Westerosi war council was a study in grim resolve. King Viserys II, his face pale but determined, presided over the meeting. His brother Jacaerys, the Supreme Commander, pointed at the same spot on the map the Pentoshi prince had.
"Here," Jace said, his voice flat and commanding. "The Flatlands. The beaches are wide, perfect for a mass landing. But their scouts will have seen us. Lord Lannister, your assessment?"
Lord Tyland Lannister, a man more comfortable with ledgers than legions, looked uneasy. "A landing under fire is a bloody business, my prince. The histories are clear. We could lose thousands of men before we even form a proper line."
"Your men will be fine, my lord," Jacaerys said, his gaze shifting across the table to where Ellyn the Weaver sat, her simple woolen robes a stark contrast to the lords' silks and velvets. "The first wave will not be your knights or Lord Stark's northmen. The Blessed will go ashore first. They will… prepare the ground."
Lord Rickon Stark looked from the prince to the weaver, his expression one of deep mistrust. "You mean to use these common-born zealots as a battering ram?"
"I mean to use them as the god intends them to be used," Jace corrected him, his voice cold as the grave. "As a miracle. A terrifying, unstoppable miracle of divine wrath. Our job, my lords, is not to win the battle on the beaches. Our job is to follow in the wake of the sermon they preach with their swords, and to secure the peace that follows."
The lords fell silent, a chill running through them. They were not generals in a war. They were stagehands, waiting for the curtain to rise on a divine play, tasked only with cleaning up the stage after the main actor had taken his bow.
The Pentoshi beach was a line of defiance. Ten thousand sellswords, a chaotic and colorful army of hardened killers from a dozen different lands, stood ready. They jeered and hurled insults as the Westerosi landing craft approached, their confidence buoyed by their numbers and the promise of triple pay.
Their laughter, however, began to die in their throats as the first wave of invaders stormed ashore. They had expected knights in heavy plate, a slow, lumbering wall of steel. Instead, the first to hit the sand were thousands of common folk in simple leather and homespun cloth. They carried plain spears and unadorned shields. There were women among them, old men, and young boys. At their head was a middle-aged weaver and a grey-haired soldier who walked without a limp.
The sellsword captain, a gruff Volantene named Vorzo, roared with laughter. "They send their peasants to die first! A fine strategy! Show them what real steel feels like, boys!"
The sellswords charged, a wave of screaming, bloodthirsty mercenaries, ready to butcher the lambs sent for slaughter.
The slaughter that followed was not the one they expected.
The Blessed did not scream war cries. They began to chant, a low, rhythmic hum that seemed to vibrate with the power of the god on the hill. "Order is peace. Peace is providence. The Work is all."
The two lines met, and the battle became a tableau of impossibility. The sellswords' swords, spears, and axes, which had tasted blood in a hundred battles, now seemed to glance off the zealots' simple leather armor as if it were Valyrian steel. Arrows fired from Myrish crossbows, bolts that could pierce oak, bounced harmlessly off the skin of the faithful.
Matthos, the old soldier, stood like a stone in the heart of the charge, his shield held high. A dozen sellswords swarmed him, their blades ringing against his shield. He did not yield a single step. With each push of his shield, men were sent flying, their bones broken by a force that was not mortal. His own sword was a blur, not killing, but disarming, shattering the blades of his opponents with casual, contemptuous ease.
Jon, the young farmer from the Riverlands, moved through the battle like a phantom. He was not a trained warrior, but he moved with a supernatural grace, the god's will guiding his spear. He never struck a killing blow. He struck at knees, at elbows, at wrists, disabling his opponents with a chilling, surgical precision.
The sellswords, men who prided themselves on their courage and their capacity for violence, began to feel a new and unfamiliar emotion: true, soul-deep terror.
"They are not bleeding!" a captain screamed, his voice cracking as he saw one of his best swordsmen cut down a zealot, only for the man to rise again, the gash in his chest knitting itself shut with a faint, starry light.
"It is sorcery!" another shrieked. "Fall back! It is black sorcery!"
But it was Ellyn the Weaver who was the most terrifying of all. She carried no weapon. She walked into the heart of the fray, her hands held open at her sides. The hardened killers who charged at her, their faces contorted in masks of rage, would suddenly falter. As they entered her aura, their aggression, their bloodlust, simply… evaporated. It was replaced by a wave of profound, divine peace, a tranquility so absolute it brought them to their knees. Great, bearded mercenaries who had sacked cities and butchered families found themselves weeping like children, their swords falling from nerveless fingers, their hearts overwhelmed by a sudden, inexplicable understanding of the futility of their own violence.
The sellsword line did not just break; it dissolved into a chaos of terror, confusion, and mass, spontaneous conversions. Men threw down their weapons and fled, screaming of demons and saints.
Behind the lines, in great wooden pens, were the thousand slaves the sellsword army had brought with them to carry supplies and dig latrines. They watched the battle with wide, hopeless eyes. As the sellsword army collapsed and fled, the Blessed swarmed over the pens, not with swords, but with hands that glowed.
Ellyn walked among them, her touch soothing the lash-scarred backs and healing the festering wounds of their bondage. Matthos and the others broke their chains with impossible strength.
A young woman, a girl from the Summer Isles sold into slavery a decade ago, stared at Ellyn, her dark eyes filled with tears of disbelief. "Who… who are you?" she asked in the broken Common Tongue she had learned. "Are you angels from the heavens?"
Ellyn smiled, a gentle, compassionate expression, and placed a warm hand on the girl's cheek. The brand of ownership that had been seared into her skin faded away, leaving only smooth, unmarred flesh. "We are the Hands of the God who has heard your suffering," Ellyn said, her voice like a mother's embrace. "Your chains are broken. Your old life is over. The Great Order has come for you."
A sound began to rise from the pens, a low murmur at first, then a growing roar. It was the sound of a thousand souls, broken and brutalized, feeling hope for the first time. It was the sound of pure, unadulterated gratitude. The psychic energy of it was an explosion, a wave of faith so potent, so pure, that it felt like a tidal wave crashing back across the Narrow Sea.
On his throne of ruins, Krosis-Krif felt it, and he savored it. This was the vintage he had been seeking. The faith of the desperate, the saved, the redeemed. It was a thousand times more powerful than the quiet prayers of his peaceful flock. This was the true profit of the Great Work.
The main Westerosi army landed on a secured beach. They walked past rows of weeping, disarmed sellsword prisoners and through a crowd of thousands of newly freed slaves who were on their knees, not before King Viserys or the banners of the great lords, but before Ellyn the Weaver and the other glowing, benevolent Hands of the God.
Ser Tytos Hill, the Lannister knight, his face a mask of stunned awe, found Jon the farmer standing guard over a group of new converts. The young zealot's eyes still held a faint, otherworldly light.
"I…" Ser Tytos began, his voice rough with emotion. "In the camp… I apologize for my words. I have served in twenty campaigns. I have never seen anything like… like what you did today."
Jon smiled serenely. It was not a smug smile, but one of genuine peace. "There is nothing to forgive, ser knight. You had not yet seen the proof of his power. Now you have. That is all that matters."
Ser Tytos looked from the calm, confident young farmer to the thousands of adoring new followers. He thought of the septons in their septs, with their dusty books and their silent gods. He thought of the lords in their castles, with their petty squabbles over land and honor. And he looked at the army of saints who had just preached a sermon with their very bodies, a sermon of liberation and divine power.
"The priests… they talk of the Seven Heavens," the veteran knight said, his voice a near whisper. "A paradise after you die." He looked at Jon, at the light in his eyes, at the freed slave girl whose scars were gone. "But you… you bring heaven to earth." He looked down at his own lion-crested sword, then back up at the farmer. His voice was filled with a desperate, yearning hope.
"Tell me," he asked, his pride forgotten. "How does one receive the god's blessing?"
The crusade had landed. And its victory was not just in the breaking of its enemies, but in the irresistible conversion of all who witnessed its terrible, beautiful power. The flock was about to grow exponentially.